Jon's Proposal

Jon and I had been best friends for a couple years, and finally started dating after much patience on Jon's end, and much obliviousness on mine. (See Jonny Blue Jeans Part 1 & 2!)

Once we got together, things didn't change much. We loved being in each others' presence, loved talking about life, loved being outside, loved going to the beach, and loved making each other laugh. The only part that changed was that I finally began to see what Jon had been talking about years before, when he'd told me he knew we were supposed to be together. Things weren't perfect (which is good... if you think things are perfect, you're either missing something or in denial), but on the rare occasions we had disagreements, we slowly but surely learned how to respectfully work things out. Sometimes that meant agreeing to disagree. If I had to choose one word to describe what it was like to be with Jon, what would it be? Easy.

There came a point when I started to wonder when Jon would ask me to marry him. We'd long surpassed the "getting to know you" phase, and miraculously, there weren't any major character flaws either of us were desperate to change about each other before we took the plunge. It seemed like everyone around us was either already married, or getting engaged. Sometimes that's all it takes for a girl to suddenly realize she "needs" her man to put a ring on it (not a good place to be if she's with the wrong guy!). We'd been dating a year, and knew the entire time that we were together for life. As important dates and holidays started passing, I started to get grumpy. Not necessarily in front of Jon, but I was just antsy enough to feel like it was taking forever. (Kind of ironic coming from the girl who had to get bashed over the head with Jon's affection before realizing he was the perfect guy for her... and I was wishing he'd hurry up? Girls.)

Our dating anniversary, Jon's birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, then Valentine's Day... they all passed with not a sniff of engagement talk. He hadn't even asked me what kinds of rings I liked. The nerve!

Then Saturday, February 25, 2006 came along. It was late afternoon, and we were hanging out at my parents' house when Jon decided we should go to Pismo Beach. We love the beach, so this was a regular activity for us. Hardly a weekend went by that we wouldn't be found in Cambria, Morro Bay, Cayucous, or Pismo. We pulled out of the driveway, but suddenly Jon stopped his green Ranger right in front of the house and said, "Oh, hang on, I forgot my sunglasses." He jumped out of the truck, ran inside, and within minutes was loping back up the path and hoisting himself into the driver's seat.

When we got to the beach, it was just about time for the sunset, so we puttered around the shops and made our way down to the pier. After watching the the sun sink into the sea, Jon suggested we take a stroll in the sand.

Now, for several months we'd been taking swing dancing lessons, which was a full blown miracle. I've always loved to dance. I never took classes (except two random Salsa lessons at Westmont, taught by a couple of students from Spain), but if there's music playing, some part of my body must be moving. Jon, on the other hand, despised dancing. It was a chore to get him to dance to more than one song at weddings. The extent to which I'd seen him bust out individual "moves" was his casual head bob, hands in his pockets, every time we'd go see a show at SLO Brew.

Through his job at Art's Cyclery, Jon had met a customer who taught swing dancing. She ended up proposing a trade: Jon would work on her bike in exchange for dance lessons for the two of us. I was ecstatic when he came home and pitched the idea to me. I never thought I'd be able to persuade Jon to pretend to swing dance with me, and here he was suggesting real dance lessons... for both of us! It was utterly blissful.

Back on the beach in Pismo, we were some of the only lunatics walking on the sand. The sun had just set, it was February, and the temperature was plummeting. That's when Jon asked if I wanted to dance. We started swinging right there in the soft sand, with the pounding of the ocean keeping the beat. He twirled and dipped me, and in a fit of snickering, we ended up with our butts in the sand. (We weren't all that skilled. There's only so much a handful of lessons can do for you.)

We continued our walk, and that's when Jon started reminiscing. He recounted how our relationship started and a slew of memories we'd generated in the time we'd known each other. I remember thinking to myself, "Why is he talking about this stuff?" He'd gone from goofy dance party on a deserted beach to philosophical retrospection. It wasn't like him, and I was more than a little perplexed.

No amount of money offered would allow me to conjure up exactly what Jon said between story time, and the instant I turned to find him kneeling in front of me.

I wish someone had been recording it, or that I'd written it down that night. "Will you marry me?" was the only sentence that I comprehended, and needed to respond to, so I did: "Yes!" in the midst of laughing, with a couple tears in my eyes. He presented me with a ring that I strained to see in the moonlight. Jon had never once asked me what kind of ring I wanted. Yet he'd somehow chosen a ring that, given the chance, I would have picked out myself. The diamond was beautiful, yet small. I'd never wanted a huge rock, and I'm way too hands-on in life to wear a ring that I would have to worry about catching on everything. On each side of the diamond there was a tiny round blue topaz, the color of tropical ocean water - my favorite.

Giddy with excitement, we finished our night by eating at Splash Café. Over a clam chowder bread bowl and a hamburger, Jon told me that when he'd run back inside my house to "get his sunglasses" that night, he'd been asking my dad for permission to ask me to marry him. He'd meant to go to my house the night before, while I was singing at a church service. But I had asked him to be there, so he couldn't attend to his plan.

One more background story was gathered from Jon in the following weeks. He had been planning on proposing to me four or five months before that particular Saturday night. This would have also been the period of time I'd started to get grouchy and impatient, wondering why in the world he was taking so long. Jon had saved the money he needed for my ring. Then one night I parked in his driveway, behind his truck at an awkward angle. Not blocking him, but preventing him from backing straight out. We'd been inside and came out, ready to leave. We hopped in his car and he backed up... straight into the passenger side of my car. He'd been forced to use all of his hard-earned ring money to repair my passenger door, which wouldn't open more than five inches due to the damage.

I can't tell you why exactly those several months made a difference. After hearing that story, I realized that Jon was working hard to make our future happen for us, when I was busy whining about getting engaged. I believe that all things happen for a reason, and there is a perfect time for everything. For some reason, Jon and I weren't quite ready yet. Remembering that night five years ago, and recognizing the joy my partner in crime brings me, makes the short extra months of waiting totally worth it.

Just the beginning ~ 2/25/06

Five years later ~ 2/25/11

The Button Bandit

My mom has always been very creative and crafty, and I grew up shopping in the fabric and craft supply stores alongside her. One day, when I was in 1st grade, she took me with her to the Yardstick, one of the few such stores in our vicinity. I loved the Yardstick, with its colors sprayed about the store in the forms of paints, pencils, fabric, thread... and buttons.

Buttons were my favorite. Whether they were brightly colored, shiny, or shaped like ladybugs and puppies, I wanted buttons. This particular day I was scanning the button rack, admiring the assortment I had seen a hundred times. Then the glass jar caught my eye. On the counter, right up there with the cash register, sat a jar full of buttons. These ones didn't come childproof, attached to the cumbersome little cards that usually read some ridiculously high price for two pieces of plastic. They were loose, and it looked like there were millions of them. I walked up to them and stuck my hand in the jar, swishing it around as I tried to "see" the diverse mixture with my fingertips.

When I saw the bright orange button that was twice the size of the rest, I clutched it and brought it out for a closer look. I don't know if it actually went through my head to steal this button, but either way it ended up in my pocket. In the car on the ride home, I realized it was in my jeans, and pulled it out to admire it yet again. My mom's voice pierced my silent adoration, "Heather, where did you get that?"

"At the store." Apparently my mind didn't work fast enough yet to think of an answer that would have kept me out of trouble.

"Did you pay for it? Because I didn't pay for it." If I had built up the courage to look my mom in the eyes, I probably would have seen astonishment and disappointment... in her voice these came in the form of irritation.

She would have known if I had tried to cover myself on this one: what six-year-old girl has her own stash that doesn't come from her mom's wallet?

"No."

So my mom did what every parent should do: told me that she was going to take me back to the Yardstick, and make me surrender my goods and admit that I'd stolen the button. I started screaming right then and there, begging my mom not to make me 'fess up. This was worse than the death penalty to me, since I was disturbingly shy and had never done anything publicly wrong in my entire life.

The tantrum anchored in fear went on and on, and suddenly I realized we had ended up back at home. Maybe it wasn't the best parenting choice, since I wasn't forced to learn my lesson, but getting off was the biggest relief I had ever felt. I'm pretty sure I was grounded, or had something confiscated from me that week, but I will always be indebted to my mom for having mercy on me. Without enforcing a punishment that fit the crime, and despite giving in to a six-year-old tantrum, my mom must have done something right. I kept that orange button, and never stole anything again.

At least until a few years later when I was particularly drawn to a pair of my neighbor Kim's Barbie high heels.

Death by Plastic Chair

"What's your most embarrassing moment?"

It's one of those break-the-ice questions that can be posed anywhere. Parties, mixers, even as a journal prompt in elementary school. For me it seemed to keep coming up on the first day of classes in college. I don't think a semester went by without at least one professor forcing us to "get to know each other" by making us relive some of the most mortifying moments of our lives.

I've always loved reading these sections in teen magazines. Seventeen magazine calls it Traumarama!; every month you can read about girls losing their bikini tops in front of their crushes, accidents involving white jeans and a certain time of the month, or walking in on the wrong people in a bedroom.

My most embarrassing moment has been the same for seventeen years. I don't know if this means I live an exceptionally boring life, or that I just don't get embarrassed very easily. Either way, nothing compares to the rising heat -- tingling to the root of every single hair on my body -- the absolute horror I felt that day in sixth grade history class.

I was sitting at my regular table, with my previously mentioned clan of fellow 12-year-olds: Lauren, Tarah, and Anita. Every day before the actual lecture and note-taking took place, we were supposed to read silently for five or ten minutes. This particular day I had a case of the pre-teen girl-giggles... and Lauren was not helping. She sat directly across from me, and from behind her book she kept peeking at me, making hilarious facial contortions, trying to get me to laugh. It was a game. What would come first: Mr. Lanes noticing that we were no where near on task, or Heather emitting a high-pitched squeal, attempting to cover up the attack threatening to burst forth?

It turns out neither of these things.

I was already in a state of the Silent Shaking Giggles. The kind where you stop breathing because you know if you take a breath your voice will come through and attention will be drawn. This usually happens in totally inappropriate venues such as church services, musical recitals, funerals, and Silent Reading Time.

Then I felt it. The gas bubble.

I totally panicked. I gave Lauren a death look (which is hard to do in the midst of Silent Shaking Giggles) I'd hoped clearly stated, "Do not make another face, we have a situation on our hands." Lauren didn't understand my code, because next thing I knew she as popping out from behind her book with an especially absurd grimace: and then it happened.

Not only did I let out a guffaw that sounded like a chain smoker getting punched in the gut, but I farted. 

Now... in sixth grade we sat in those standard plastic classroom chairs. These chairs provide just the right acoustics for a small, accidental fart to morph into a deep tone that brings to mind cheerleading megaphones and Grand Canyon-like echoes.

I could feel my face lighting up like a blazing sunset and I crouched down in my seat like I would become invisible if I lost a couple inches. (If I haven't already made it clear, I was exceedingly shy and my worst nightmare was being the center of attention... sometimes it still is my worst nightmare.) The class had obviously heard the disturbance and started chuckling... soon it would turn into a thunderous roar, and it would all be pointed in my direction. That's when Lauren decided she had to do something.

"ANDY!!" Lauren yelled. Andy was a super smart kid who was easy to make fun of. He was one of those students who was so far beyond any of us, and he didn't care. (Think pre-pubescent Dwight Schrute.) He was probably the most well-adjusted middle schooler at TMS. He was smart and he knew it... he had nothing to prove. Jokes and insults hurled at him by the street rats he was forced to attend school with bounced off him like the handballs did during P.E. He was actually the perfect choice to pin the fart on.

The problem was, he was across the room. Surely this wouldn't work. I could feel my Teen Spirited armpits starting to soak through my shirt. Tarah was laughing so hard she started crying, and she could not be consoled. Soon Mr. Lanes sent her outside. Tarah, the A+ student who never made waves had just been sent outside for the first and only time in her life! Andy looked up, confused. He had been engrossed in his reading, and the look on his face told the rest of us he didn't even know what had happened. It was pure pandemonium.

Then, as quickly as it had been brought on, it calmed. Mr. Lanes took control of the situation (God bless him) and somehow got the class back into silent reading mode. My face was still crimson and Tarah was still outside. Lauren and Anita were smirking at me, and Andy had gone back to his book.

I'm not sure how many people believed Lauren's accusation, but no one admonished me for the anal outburst. My face had been saved.

As I said earlier, the fact that this particular incident is, to date, my most embarrassing moment, might be pathetic. Much worse has happened to teenage girls all around the world. But no matter what your most embarrassing moment is, it's necessary to have one. Remembering that feeling of horror and what it's like to literally want to die instead of being caught in that moment helps shape us just a little bit. Not only do I rush to someone's aid when they are hideously embarrassed by something, but I can also laugh at myself.

Much more embarrassing things have probably already happened, and certainly will happen, to me. But if I can laugh them off and take life as it comes, this middle school blip may just remain my Most Embarrassing Moment.

Jonny Blue Jeans - Part 2

I had to feebly explain to Jon on the phone that night (all the while feeling utterly deflated because I was now breaking my best friend's heart) that I considered him a great friend (that's right, shove the knife in a little deeper, Heather, I don't think you severed the aorta yet), that I still had feelings for the Boyfriend, and I wanted to make sure that it was truly over before I could move on. Sitting on the classroom-like carpet of the dorm hallway, all I could hear was Jon breathing for what seemed like minutes. Finally, he must have said something to wrap up the conversation, because I felt like the next second I was sitting there gaping at my phone in my hand, disconnected.

I wasn't sure what this meant. Could I talk to Jon anymore? Would it be leading him on to call him or spend time with him? (Hindsight answer: YES.) Would he even want to?

I didn't have to wait long to find out Jon had decided to act like nothing happened. We continued to text and hang out when I was home, and he even came to visit me at school once that semester. I still talked to (not-so) Boyfriend, too. On one of my weekends home, we were out to dinner with a huge group, as usual, and Boyfriend mentioned that he and one of our other friends were looking into spending six months in Tanzania.  

Tanzania??? How are we going to work on our roller coaster relationship if you are on the East Coast of Africa??? I felt like throwing up.

Four months later, Boyfriend was gone. And not for six months, but for a year. He left with us on good terms (in that heinous "friend zone") and I told him I'd be praying for him. He promised he'd keep in touch. Jon and I continued to become closer friends that summer. We knew everything about each other, laughed about everything together, and had a tight knit group of mutual friends who we spent every evening with. Then the time came for me to return for my last semester of college. It was the Fall of 2003. I was looking forward to getting out of town, mostly because everything I did, heard, saw, tasted, or smelled reminded me of Boyfriend, no matter how much fun I was having with my friends.

I was only a couple weeks into the semester when I got an e-mail from the Boyfriend. I hadn't heard from him yet, and considering he was in a different country, I had somewhat resigned myself to the fact that I would have to get over it. I was ready to focus, finish school, and hang out with my girlfriends. Then Boyfriend had to jump back in, sending me into a downward spiral of regret mixed with hope. We kept in close touch that semester. At the same time, Jon and I remained friends and visited each other. Then, over Christmas break that year (I was officially done with school), I received an e-mail from Boyfriend telling me that the last time we had hung out before he left, he'd realized that what he had with me was "how it's supposed to be". He then asked if I'd be willing to wait for him to return from Tanzania that summer to see where our relationship might go from there. I was giddy. This is what I had subconsciously (at times, consciously) been waiting for. I could not wait to write him back to tell him exactly how I felt and that I would absolutely wait for him.

Now... I was still spending ludicrous amounts of time with Jon. He was my favorite person to be around, and now that I was home from school, we could actually hang out all week long. And we did. When this development came about between Boyfriend and me, I didn't tell Jon. I didn't think he needed to know... despite his knowing the entire history and knowing me better than anyone. I just failed to mention it.

One night, during one of these months of waiting, Jon and I were on the phone again. This time Jon decided that it would be a good idea to say this: "blah blah blah blah blah I love you blah blah blah blah...." I have no idea what we'd been talking about before he dropped yet another over-the-phone Fat Man on me, but it didn't matter. This time I cried. I was so frustrated with Jon. How many times did I have to explain my feelings before he realized it was never going to happen!? At this point I needed to tell him my plans for when the Boyfriend returned. If I hadn't already crushed his spirit, this surely did. I think it crushed a piece of mine, too.

As the summer neared, I became more excited, but things with Jon became strained. When we were with our friends we hardly said a word to each other, and I found myself making fun of him more than usual, whether he was listening or not. We didn't hit the town alone like we had so often before. We both knew what was coming, and we both knew what we had would not be appropriate anymore.

Jon and I both had joined teams going on missions trips to separate places that June. I would be leaving for Tonga (for a month and a half) a few weeks before he left for the Czech Republic. When I returned, two weeks before he would, the Boyfriend would be back from Tanzania and life would be changed. We said our goodbyes the night before I left, and Jon told me he didn't think we should contact each other while we were gone. It broke my heart. I wasn't going to be able to tell him anything about what I was experiencing, and he didn't want to hear about it. It was his way of distancing himself from me before the three of us would all be in the same place again. I didn't like it. The one and only time I've seen Jon cry is that night, before he left my house.

At one point that summer, the three of us were on three different continents. There were words that couldn't be said, confusion, reunions, heartaches, and forms of love shooting in too many directions. When the time finally came, Boyfriend and I were excited to see each other, but hesitant. He'd been gone for a year, and seen things he could never fully explain to me. I'd been growing closer to one of his former friends for a year, and still wished I could talk to Jon, just once. It didn't take us long to realize we had very much idealized our relationship. How romantic to pine for each other across the world! How amazing our story would be, so many ups and downs, and finally a blessed reunion! But we just weren't clicking. It became achingly clear what had happened when one day I gave Boyfriend a letter I had written explaining my frustrations (we had grown so accustomed to writing that I felt I would do better expressing myself that way).  The incriminating lines said this: "I just want to see it on your face. I want you to light up when I walk into the room. Jon smiles like that when he sees me, and he's just my friend."

He studied my face after reading the letter, settled on my eyes and said, "You love him."

I argued with him. I became defensive and supported my logic by reminding him that I waited for him. I had waited for months before he left the country, then I waited a year for his return. If there was any loving going on here, it was my love for him. But something broke free that day. It took this person who I loved with every piece of me, who I would do anything for, to say the words. To allow me to recognize something I'd stubbornly brushed off for years. He wasn't angry. He watched me closely as I explained my feelings, but I could tell that he knew those feelings better than I did myself.

Boyfriend and I weakly kept things going for a couple weeks until he decided to attend a college recommended by the family he'd stayed with in Tanzania. The school was in New York. After he'd been gone three weeks and I hadn't heard much from him, I called him at school and told him I didn't want to do this again. I couldn't keep waiting for him to do his thing, and that it didn't seem like we were supposed to be together. That was a heartbreaking night. I'd carried a love for this guy for five years... these years were made all the more powerful because they were the ages from 17 - 22.  We'd dated for most of that time, and we'd made some huge leaps of faith to try to be together. He was my first love. I still felt very much in love with him when I had to tell him it was truly over and say good-bye for the last time.

As much as my heart throbbed, I knew it was the right decision. I knew who I was supposed to be with. The first time I saw Jon after he returned from Europe, he took me aside, away from our other friends and said, "I just want you to know that nothing changed while we were gone. I still feel the same way about you." At the time all I could do was force a lopsided smile.

Several weeks later we found ourselves in Jon's driveway. I'd driven him home from a group outing. That night I was able to look him in the eyes and say, "Jon, I love you."

After nine years of introspection, I now realize that I was the goon in all the chick flicks who is entirely infatuated with the guy who's all wrong for her. I was Andie, in Pretty in Pink, pining over someone else, while the kooky best friend was waiting in the wings: Duckie.

Jon could have given up on me several times. He could have saved himself from my mixed signals and hacksaw-like emotions. He could have moved on and found someone else, someone easier. But I guess when he told me over the phone as I sat hugging my knees against the cinder-block wall in Emerson Hall, "We're supposed to be together," he knew what he was talking about.

We've now been best friends for eight years, together for six, and married for four and a half.

Jonny Blue Jeans - Part 1

The very first time I met Jon, we were at our high school youth group, and he had come with a long time friend of mine. Another friend, Katie, introduced him to me because she knew him from school (they both went to AHS, and I went to THS). I was a senior, he was a junior and had only lived in the area since the year before. He was tall, had a crooked smile, which made him look like he was thinking about a joke he'd heard earlier, and was painfully shy. I was surprised he would spend time with Trevor, who was the complete opposite. As the boys walked away that night, Katie whispered to me, "I'm going to marry that boy someday." I just thought to myself, "That's cute..." and went to talk to some other friends.

A couple years later, Jon and I ended up in the same circle of friends, despite the fact that I was attending college in Santa Barbara and he was still in Atascadero. We were reintroduced by my boyfriend at the time, who I was totally and completely convinced I was going to marry. I traveled home every few weeks to visit him, and Friday night rock climbing at the Crux, followed by dinner at Firestone, was a ritual that would not be altered by "the girlfriend" coming home. Always up for becoming friends with my boyfriend's buddies, I found myself in conversation with Jon at the gym on several occasions.

At first, it was a chore to talk to him. He was sweet, but shy, and being shy myself, I have never had that talent it takes to keep a conversation going unless the other person helps out. Jon didn't help out. Our conversations were brief, and even though awkwardness often had me finding an excuse to walk away, I always found myself drawn back to him by the end of the night. I didn't know why, but I liked being around this guy.

The Boys called him Jonny Blue Jeans, which made sense because whether he was rock climbing, or riding his BMX bike around town and on the local dirt jumps, Jon always wore jeans. He also always wore collared shirts, which I found appealing. Who dresses up when they're participating in physical activities?

As time went on, things with my boyfriend became strained. I realize two hours is hardly "long distance", but any distance can put strain on a relationship, especially when the people involved are only 19 and 20 years old. The first break the Boyfriend and I took was a test. We knew things weren't right, but weren't ready to give each other up quite yet, so visits home were still spent with our group of friends. I yearned for his attention and spent every moment possible with him. These moments usually included Jon and several other friends, because people on "breaks" don't spend time alone.

One night I realized that Jon and I were basically the same person. We'd gotten to be quite comfortable around each other, and despite his to-the-point-of-being-awkward quietness, we got along. The instant I recognized Jon's sense of humor was when we were attending a small concert with our "gang" in San Luis. Jon and I were sitting next to each other, and he'd taken notice of an individual with a ridiculous white man's afro. He really wanted me to see it. He tried to point the guy out to me several times, but being a good nine inches shorter than Jon made it impossible for me to see this work of art. Finally, Jon sighed in utter frustration and said, "Heather, you're breakin' my balls!" At this point we had still mostly engaged in small talk, and I certainly had never heard him utter the word "balls" before. I stared at him for a couple seconds and then cracked. I proceeded to have the kind of laughing fit that makes you feel like you attended an ab sculpting workout at the gym. It seemed as though Jon was one of those "quietly funny" guys, who saved his best lines for the people sitting closest to him, never wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Just like me.

This incident, along with becoming close friends, didn't seal the deal. I was still very much in love with the Boyfriend, and still had it in my head (and heart) that we were supposed to get married. There was a "getting back together" period, in which Jon remained close friends to both of us. Months down the road, another break up ensued, and this time it seemed real. I was devastated. Playing both sides of the fence, Jon heard both sides, and seemed to be most sympathetic toward me. He was there to talk, he invited me to hang out, he apologized for his fellow male and how poorly Former Boyfriend was behaving. He tried to convince me that I deserved to be treated better than this, and that I should move on.

Here's when Jon started to annoy me. No one who has just broken up with the Love of Their Life wants to hear that they should move on. For months after that I was convinced that something would still happen between Boyfriend and me, and that we'd have a fairytale ending that all girls want. We'd just have a "more interesting" story because of all the turmoil. (HA! Twenty-somethings.) During this whole time, Jon, my Best Friend, was there. We spent most of my time on weekend visits together with other friends (now it was far too painful to be around Boyfriend...) The week I returned to school after Christmas break, out of the blue, Jon started texting me. Now, this was 2003. Texting was a somewhat new thing, and I barely knew how to get my phone to make messages, let alone send them. Heck, I had just gotten my first cell phone the previous year, as a sophomore in college! It was a new and exciting way to communicate, and certainly a fun way to receive attention from the opposite sex. I started to look forward to these texts every night, and sometimes Jon would even be sitting in his night classes at Cuesta, texting me instead of paying attention to the lectures.

There was a night that Jon decided to call me. I only really talked to girlfriends and Boyfriend on the phone. When I saw Jon's number pop up I panicked a little. Texting is so easy and passive. But talking!? I answered hesitantly, and Jon and I engaged in some awkward chit chat until he decided to drop a bomb on me. He decided to tell me that he had never felt this way about a girl before in his whole life, and that he was sure that he and I were supposed to be together. In a matter of 10 seconds Jon had ruined everything.

Why Would You Pay Money to Run?

 

This weekend my husband Jon and I ran the Surf City USA Marathon and Half Marathon, respectively. The race was in Huntington Beach, which is a super fun place to be, even if it is the OC. (No disrespect to Orange County, I was born there... but seriously. Ever since Laguna Beach I just can't take that place too seriously.) This wasn't either of our first races, but it was by far the largest, and Jon's first full marathon. Experiencing an event like this had me reflecting on some things I've learned over the years about runners.

There are several types of runners:

• The Elitist: this is the runner who can actually run a marathon (that's 26.2 whole miles) at a pace somewhere around 5-6 minute miles. For the entire course. (I believe the best time I've ever run a mile in is around 8:15. That was "sprinting", and I could stop when that one mile was over.) These are the kind of people you can look at and know immediately they are runners. Their bodies are made for it. When they enter a race with 16,000 other people, they are actually trying to win. These are the runners who wish people like me wouldn't sign up for marathons because we "lower the bar", and it seems that nowadays anyone can participate in a marathon. (See this http://gothamist.com/2009/10/23/you_call_that_marathon_running.php) Here's what I don't understand: how are the slower people getting in anyone's way? I still have never run a full marathon, but if I did, you fast people surely would never even see me. You'd be enjoying the finish line beer garden and probably wrapping up lunch long before I'd see the end of 26.2 miles.
• The Healthy, I-Run-to-Stay-Fit Runner: these people may not be able to keep up with Elitists, but they are super fit, live annoyingly healthy lifestyles, and seem to be perpetually training for the next race. If you let them know you're interested in running, or that you've signed up for a race 6 months from now, they get overly excited and running becomes the only thing they will talk about every time you run into them. They even offer to be your running partner, in which case you panic because really, they run twice as fast as you, and all you want to do is listen to your iPod, not run alongside someone gasping for breath and clutching at your heart as you talk about running while you're running.
• The Just-for-Fun Runner: I'm not sure why people who have never even walked a couple miles would hear about a 13.1 or 26.2 mile race and think to themselves "That sounds sounds entertaining! I'll do it!" But they're out there. I passed a bunch of them on Sunday. I love these runners, because most of them are attempting something that they most likely thought impossible mere months before the race. These runners are moms of every age, middle aged men and women who have beaten cancer, young people raising money in honor of a loved one, and even 85-year-old women (not gonna lie, I worry about the 85 year olds... they inspire me until I see them out on the course, then I want to put them on my back and carry them the rest of the way just so they don't keel over in the middle of the street). These runners wear shirts that say things like, "I'm slow, get over it" and "Does this T-shirt make my ass look fast?" They are awesome because they are out there, they are trying, and they have fabulous attitudes. They are also the only ones I can actually pass, so they make me feel super fast. 
• The Barefoot Runner: Yes, there are actually people who run barefoot. For 13 or 26 miles. Some of them wear funny looking shoes, like these: http://www.vibramfivefingers.com, some of them are truly barefoot. One of them passed me in the race Sunday, wearing only socks.  I cringed a little.
• The I-only-played-team-sports-in-high-school-and-since-none-of-my-friends-would-play-volleyball-with-me-I-had-to-find-something-else-to-keep-me-from-becoming-obese-and-my-best-friend-talked-me-into-signing-up-for-a-half-marathon-four-years-ago Runner: Me. 

I "dabbled" in running when I graduated from high school because it was easy to do alone, I didn't have to buy gear, and as much as I hated it, it made me feel somewhat proactive toward staying healthy. Then Lauren convinced me to attend a meeting for Team in Training, an organization that trains regular people to complete marathons, 1/2 marathons, triathlons, and century bike rides. All while raising money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. We listened to the spiel, wrote our checks for $75, and walked away with our TNT water bottles (their abbreviation is TNT instead of TIT, for obvious reasons). We were going to run a 1/2 marathon! Oh, crap. 

We made our way through the training, and with about four weeks to go, I developed ITB Syndrome (it hurts... a common knee injury for runners), and Lauren gave herself a hairline fracture in her foot. After all our fund-raising, training, and enthusiasm for doing something that seemed impossible (yes, we fell into the "Just-for-Fun" category at the time), we were going to have to walk. Walk. 13.1 miles. We ended up starting and finishing together after 3 1/2 hours of walking next to the ocean, up and down some monster hills, on a gorgeous day in Santa Barbara. We just had to laugh. Until we got back to the hotel and had to sit in the bathtub in our shorts and sports bras while Nick and Jon dumped buckets of ice over us. (A post race ice bath was strongly suggested by our trainers... I will never sit in ice by choice again.) I couldn't walk for about a week after the race, but I will always be grateful that Lauren got me off my butt.

A couple years later, I had my daughter. Nothing could have prepared me for the brutality bestowed upon me by childbirth. I felt like I had been run over, several times, by a semi, and for at least two weeks it hurt just to walk to the bathroom. At that point I hadn't run in a long time. One reason was that my ITBS never fully went away, and if I overdid it, I could feel the lingering pain of my 2 1/2 year old injury, and I was terrified to push it too far. After having Kealani I was fully convinced I would never run again. Ha! I could hardly walk, how would I ever run?

Slowly but surely, my body went back to itself. A different version of itself, but itself nonetheless. I resumed my "dabbling" in running until K was almost a year and a half old. That's when I started to train for the first race since my walking debut in Santa Barbara. It was a 10K in Morro Bay, on the beach. I put up a training schedule on my fridge, and went for it. (I will only enjoy regular physical activities if I can cross them off a calendar as I go.) I loved it. I knew I was crazy. I was loving running. I felt strong, and in better shape than I'd been since my first training experience. That's when I decided that running was my thing. It has proven to be the best way for me to stay in shape and to be at my healthiest. So next came the 1/2 marathons. Again, I was terrified, since a 1/2 is more than twice the distance of a 10K, and the last time I'd attempted that distance I'd injured myself pretty badly. On 10-10-10, I ran the City to Sea race. Yes, I ran it! I felt so accomplished.

In the last seven months I've run the 10K and three 1/2 marathons. Now I'm taking a break. I will continue running, but not nearly as far. My body is ready for a break, and I want to treat it well so I can use it for a long time... but when I feel my competitive nature gnawing at me again, I'm sure I'll sign up for another race. (In the meantime I'd better stop eating so much. #1 reason to run a race: the t-shirt; #2 reason: so I can eat whatever I want.)

During my first training experience I learned that I can run pretty far. I also learned that a lot of people think runners are crazy. The first words out of Jon's mouth when I told him I wanted to sign up for a race after the baby were, "Why would you pay money to run?" Well, partly because you get a sweet t-shirt and a medal when you finish. But mostly because I feel healthy, strong, and accomplished when I reach a goal I've set for myself. It's something I very much hope to pass on to Kealani: not only can you do things you may have never thought you can do, but living an active and healthy lifestyle is fun. Will she be competitive to a fault, like her mom, or will she just be able to enjoy being active and outside, like her dad? I guess we'll have to wait and see.

The Walking Wonders

P.S. There are plenty of other kinds of runners. The groups I listed stick out the most to me, and have lots of people representing them! I'm sure most people would fit into more than one group.

Hypochondriac of the Holy

We moved to Atascadero in 1987. After a few months of church hopping, my family found one to attend called Atascadero Bible Church. ABC is nondenominational. I didn't care what denomination it was, or what denomination meant for that matter: I didn't want to go. Every week I had to be forcibly coerced into going to Sunday School.

First of all, who has school on weekends, and second, why did they force intellectual wonders like myself to congregate with the scum of elementary school society? These kids were stinky, ugly, big fat babies. Some of them would even cry when their moms left the room. Pathetic.

We had to sit around tables in tiny rock hard desk chairs while some lady told us stories with flannel people. One question I asked myself every week: Who cares?

Sunday mornings were quite the battle at my house. I feigned sickness almost every Sunday. "I don't feel good" became the catch phrase after once being rewarded: I'd been allowed to stay home and watch cartoons with Dad, who courteously sacrificed his own church attendance for my sake.

If my mom was lucky, Sunday would roll around and I would actually admit I was healthy enough to attend the service (the fact that as a mom, she had known from the first attempt that I was faking it, but chose to indulge me once out of convenience, was lost on this kindergartener)... but the war was still raging.

I despised dresses. My mom loved her little girl to be all dressed up, many times in fashions she had handmade just for me, with my dirty blond hair arranged perfectly into two rope-like braids; I was more than content in my jeans, shorts, and t-shirts. My attempt to guilt my mother out was the phrase, "God doesn't care what I'm wearing," to which she always replied, "Well, I do." Needless to say, my attitude walking onto ABC's premises wasn't the most holy.

This all changed the Sunday that I joined Mrs. Bennett's Sunday School class. I loved both of my grandmothers, but if I had been allowed to have three, I would have adopted Mrs. Bennett as my third. Her smile caused a sigh of relief as I walked into the room, and she didn't have blue hair like most of the older ladies at church. Her voice was soothing and animated, and even though she told us the same stories with the flannel Jesus, they meant something coming from Mrs. Bennett. She encouraged everyone, and made me feel confident that my colored pictures were the best, even if I'd made Zacchaeus' skin orange and went outside the lines a little bit. Luckily, Mrs. Bennett was my Sunday School teacher for a few years. Just enough time for me to grow out of my "I don't feel good on Sunday morning" phase.

Throughout the years, I'd run into Mrs. B. in the bathroom after a service at ABC, and she'd always greet me with her contagious smile, using my name every time she greeted me.  I even wrote a story about her in third grade as part of an assignment to describe one of our favorite people. Mrs. Bennett was one of the first people, outside my own family, to show me how to love like Jesus, and I will forever be grateful to her for that.

I originally wrote this story, like some of the others, in college. That year I'd become close friends with Mrs. Bennett's grandson, Jon, who I hadn't known growing up because he had lived in Washington until high school. To make a longer story (which will be told later) shorter, Jon and I went from best friends to dating to friends again to dating again to engaged to married over the course of about four years. Mrs. Bennett is now my third grandma. Whether you believe in God, like I do, a Higher Power, the Universe, Fate, coincidence, or whatever else is out there... you have to admit, someone has a sense of humor.

Freak to Friend to Foe

 Because who doesn't love remembering the awkwardness and friendship politics that define middle school?

One day we had a new girl come into our core class in the 6th grade. Her name was Shauna. Shauna had medium length blond hair that always looked like she had just taken it out of a braid, and bangs. She was built like a boy, walked like a football player, and had huge, muscle-bound thighs. (At this stage in life, I'd probably kill for thighs like that, but in 6th grade they were obscene.) Her perfectly straight, white teeth were overshadowed by the thick glasses that were supposed to allow her to see better and uncross her lazy eye. Unfortunately for Shauna, this didn't always happen.

Shauna annoyed everyone from the start. Not only did she disturb the equilibrium our class had developed into the school year, but she was distracting. She was funny looking, and everyone wanted to figure out what her lazy eye was looking at. I played this game once, watching the eye and guessing that it was zoomed in on the chair next to me... until Shauna fiercely whispered, "What!?" Apparently that time it was looking at me.

Shauna also thought she knew everything. At least as much as a freshman in high school. In history class, Mr. Lanes asked one day what we knew about plate tectonics. Shauna raised her hand and, with her nose in the air, replied, "Plate tectonics broke apart the original super continent, Pangaea."

Pan-what?

My friends and I looked at each other furiously as if to say, "who does One Eyed Willie think she is?"

When no one else was tolerant enough (or brave enough) to hang out with Shauna, my close-knit group from that particular year: Lauren, Anita, Tarah, and I found it in our hearts to let her into our squad. It actually worked out quite nicely for awhile. Shauna also liked volleyball, and had a pretty good sense of humor under those glasses. She also let me know when it was about time for me to start shopping for a training bra. That's real camaraderie. (Even if her tactic was whisper-screaming "OH MY GOD! YOU NEED TO BE WEARING A BRA!!" in front of half the class when I showed up to school one morning.) We had fun with Shauna and never treated her like the foreigner we had originally wanted to when she barged in on our class. She was our friend for a hefty chunk of the year, until she started to notice who the popular sixth graders were.

Little by little, we saw less of Shauna. She still played volleyball with us sometimes, and of course we saw her in class, but as the year went on our friendship with her fizzled out. Shauna, the cross eyed boy-girl with big legs, had been initiated into the cool crowd!

She got contacts and grew out her bangs. She started coming to school with brand names splayed across her blooming chest, and Airwalk shoes. She got to dance with the English Twins to Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love to You" without getting ditched at the Valentine's Dance. My experience with them wasn't quite the same. (Chris told me he had to go to the bathroom and would be right back, never to return again... at least Pat danced with me for a whole song.)

We were amazed and slightly offended that after our extension of grace, Shauna would so easily pack up and leave us. Despite this, we went about our daily business, content with our original group.

The problems arose when Shauna decided she had suddenly been ordained with the authority to treat us like the dirt that the popular crew must have assumed we were. When we walked by, she'd make fun of us, and in class she'd shoot us death looks with one of her eyes. I couldn't believe it. Shauna had made the Transition and completely forgotten her dorky roots!

My first lesson in middle school politics was taught to me by this former friend. It was about getting to the top and looking good doing it... something Anita, Lauren, Tarah and I were just too naive to care about yet. I won't lie, the popularity game eventually became a priority to us as well. We all went through the phase, buying the "cool" clothes and weaseling our way into a conversation with one of the pretty girls or a good looking boy. Fortunately for us, we grew out if it in time for high school.

Scandal in the Backyard

Since my college composition class is what originally prodded my love for writing awake, I decided to start off by sharing some of the stories I wrote as assignments for the class. Some tweaking will be done here and there, because, let's face it: I was 21 years old when I wrote this stuff, and weren't we all a tad idiotic when we were 21? This story is a combination of three narratives called "Moving On", "My New Soulmate", and "Scandal in the Backyard".

I remember being told one day that we were going to move away from our Laguna Hills dwelling. I was devastated. The place of which I was old enough to have conscious memories, the place my brother came home to after his birth, the place I met my best friend, Johnny... we were leaving it behind. Johnny was the hardest to part with. He had been my companion for more than half my five years of life... how could I survive without him? He couldn't come with me. I knew moving far away would be difficult, but for some reason my parents didn't want to raise their children in Orange County. So we packed up like nomads and made the journey to a little town on the Central Coast of California called Atascadero... which means "mud hole". Even so, my parents felt sure something good was waiting for us there. Apparently anything was better than Orange County.

We moved to Atascadero from Laguna Hills, and only spent a year there before relocating to Templeton, the next town north, about seven minutes away. Templeton was home to two things: cows and hillbillies. We moved onto Whippoorwill Lane, and to my sheer delight there was a family two doors down with a girl and a boy. Kim was a year older than me, but Eric was my age... exactly. It took us only one day to realize we had the same birthday and that he happened to be fifty minutes older than I (this, by the way, was something he would use against me in the future any time we had a disagreement... the oldest is always right). Eric had soft white-blond hair, blue eyes, and big white teeth. His lips were always chapped and his skin was always tanned, with a small assortment of freckles scattered across his nose. He was the best looking boy I had ever seen before. I thought he was perfect. All the disappointment in moving had long since disappeared: I had found my new accomplice. In August we went to school together to find out who our new first grade teachers would be. Imagine our bliss when we scanned the lists and found both our names under Mrs. Bailey! We walked away from the school that day a little taller with our arms around each others' shoulders.

Eric and I did everything together for years. Kim became a close companion as well, but for some reason I always migrated toward boys. I would have rather played in mud or tossed a ball around than dress up Barbie dolls or play with Mom's makeup. We rode bikes, scooters, and skateboards, watched movies, played Duck Hunt on Eric's Nintendo, ate mac 'n' cheese, and frolicked in my backyard. One day Eric and I sat in the itchy grass, underneath the fortress we had constructed all by ourselves. Consisting of only chairs and blankets, it was a primitive set up, but it felt like home to us. We were playing house, as we often did; of course Eric was the husband and I was the wife. Somewhere in the midst of me cooking dinner with mud and a shovel, and Eric "coming home from work", one of us decided we should kiss (most likely Eric, the alpha male). Since we were only in the second grade, all we knew was what we saw on TV, which was too complicated, and what our parents did, which was disgusting. So we had no idea where to begin.

As we discussed our plan of action, my heart started to beat faster, not out of nervousness, but from excitement. Eric was my best friend, my soulmate. Who else should my first kiss belong to? Eric suggested that this should be a French kiss, but all we knew was that those required tongues. He, as all good husbands do, continued to take the initiative and instructed me to stick out my tongue. Taking his own advice, he mimicked my action and we both hesitated, with our tongues hanging out. Finally he leaned forward and grazed the tip of my tongue with his own and we both instantly jerked backward, falling over with laughter. We were so rebellious! Quite satisfied with our first kiss, we went about our business, but not before swearing on our lives that no one would ever find out about our fornication.

I suppose in writing this post, I have made a huge breach in that agreement. Oh well, what are the odds that Eric finds my blog and hunts me down? Hmmm... my guess is that we'd just laugh again and throw a joint birthday party.

Mirror

Three years ago I started a blog, intending to chronicle the exciting life I was about to embark on. I had just been hired to teach at an international school in Ecuador, and figured the process, and eventually the move and job itself, would provide experiences worthy of writing about. I’ll save the story for another time, but due to a major life event, my husband Jon and I ended up staying right here in San Luis Obispo County, CA. I occasionally made pathetic attempts at blogging about my “boring” life, but I always felt a little bit let down by the loss of an opportunity to write.

Recently I started thinking about a class I took while attending Westmont College. It was Advanced Composition: a requirement for my Liberal Studies degree that would lead to obtaining a teaching credential. It ended up being my all time favorite class. We wrote in journals. We wrote vignettes. We read each others’ stories and discussed. We ultimately ended up writing about glimpses from our lives — sort of super-abridged autobiographies. I don’t know if it was my own ego, the desire to be heard, or simply the fact that I love to write, and “me” was the subject I knew best… but I found that writing stories about my life and experiences was one of my favorite things to do.

I love to read and write. There’s something therapeutic about cozying up with a great book and losing myself in a well told story. There’s also something therapeutic about writing about life. It’s like looking into a mirror; noticing in that moment what’s already there, observing features that have been formed over time, or seeing the potential for what could be. It can be painful seeing yourself for who you really are. It can also be encouraging when you realize how far you’ve come. I love reading old journals. Sometimes I laugh out loud at how ridiculous I sound, sometimes I want to cry as I am pulled back through the heartbreak I was feeling at a time when the only thing I knew might help was to write about it.

The title of this blog was inspired by a song. Here are some of the lyrics:

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall, have I got it?
‘Cause Mirror you’ve always told me who I am
I’m finding it’s not easy to be perfect
So sorry you won’t define me, sorry you don’t own me

Who are you to tell me that I’m less than what I should be?
Who are you? Who are you?
I don’t need to listen to the list of things I should do
I won’t try, no, I won’t try”

There’s more to it, but I’ll save that for later.

So here goes my new attempt. Writing about life. Looking into the mirror, remembering things and learning more about that person in the silver glass.